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“I’d stay still, Leighton. And answer every question Arrow has to ask. He’s very testy right now, so I wouldn’t provoke him.”
“What! She-she hit my fucking car! I didn’t say anything to the cops about you…” Leighton tries to shake his head and pull away from Arrow as he holds up a Gigli saw with glee.
“Which fingers did you use on my Kitten?” Arrow growls, running his finger over Leighton’s.
I swallow hard at the demonic sound emanating from him. He means fucking business, and he won’t stop until he takes a finger and shoves it down Leighton’s throat.
“What are you doing?” he asks again with a slight tremble in his voice. “You can’t do this! My father will burn all of you and the organization to the ground,” he hisses through several heavy breaths as sweat pours down his neck. With satisfaction, I watch the color drain from his face as the realization of what’s happening hits him like a truck.
“And my father will make sure your family ceases to exist,” Jericho says, calmly approaching Leighton’s side. “Leighton who? Governor LeMaster, who? Everyone will forget your existence the moment my father says so.” He snarls at Jericho, ready to spit more volatile words his way, but Jer cuts him off. “I’m curious. Which hand did you use to assault her?” he asks again, lifting a small knife from the table to his right.
Jer hums, running the sharp blade across his fingertip, turning my stomach until it knots, charging toward him with vengeance in his eyes. Deep red coats his fingers when he stands before Leighton, examining the shiny knife he loves so much.
Jericho and Arrow are two peas in a pod. Arrow loves destruction. Jericho loves the blood on his hands. Together, they’re mayhem. And me? I’m the silent guy on the sidelines, using my strength for whatever they need me to. Silently protecting our future wife and providing for her as quietly as I can. Like now. My strength is staring Leighton down, enforcing the message Jericho is trying to convey.
Pain.
“I didn’t,” he squeaks, watching as Jericho advances on him more. His beady eyes soak in the sharp knife nestled in Jericho’s hand, ready to stab Leighton at any second. “I swear. I didn’t do anything,” he begs again, with snot bubbles popping out of his nostrils and tears dampening his eyes. Fucking pathetic. “I didn’t,” he cries again, trying to shake his head, but the restraints hold him firmly in place.
Swallowing my disgust, I move forward, standing beside Arrow as Jericho leans down, getting into Leighton’s face.
“Right. Of course, you didn’t. She was lying, right?” His breath hitches when Jer brings the sharpened blade near his right eye.
Vicious thoughts of removing it from his skull for the simple satisfaction of watching him navigate this world without it cross my mind until I shiver with rage. I’m not one to inflict pain, but watching him squirm under Jericho’s eager stare has a demented smile crossing my lips.
“It wasn’t you?” Jer hums again, dragging the blade down Leighton’s left cheek and digging it in until their blood mingles on the sharpened edges.
I swallow hard, running the tips of my fingers over the scar on my own face. Whatever Jer does to him now, it’ll leave a scar—another reminder of who he shouldn’t fuck with. Us. The family he’s pledged to serve for the entirety of his life.
The only way out of The Viotto family is through death and death alone. There’s no sneaking away once you’ve started training. You can run and hide, but they will find you, drag you back, and sentence you for your crimes.
They’re so old school it’s hard to breathe sometimes.
Arrow chuckles, holding up the Gigli saw higher, pulling the metal thread tight, and grasping the handles in each hand with a menacing smile, depriving the room of warmth. His favorite toy. The one tool that causes more pain than anything in the room. It’s slow and meticulous and makes people talk quicker than anything else he could do. The intended use for this tool is to surgically cut through bone to amputate limbs, but Arrow thought it made better use as a torture device instead.
“Which hand did you use?” Arrow growls in a lifeless voice, bending to gaze into Leighton’s eyes through the slits of his mask. “Tell me now before I cut your fingers off one by one and then work my way up. I want to see the life drain from your eyes when I wrap this around your throat and stop you from begging.” Leighton trembles so hard that the entire chair rattles with the remnants of his fear.
For someone in the life, he sure acts like he's never been through this before. Maybe his father sheltered him for too long.
Arrow’s deep laugh vibrates through the plastic mask. The only thing visible are his vibrant blue eyes, blazing with destruction and dilating at the sight of blood.
“One last warning,” he growls, wrapping the metal wire around Leighton’s middle finger and securing it tightly. Slowly, he works the wire back and forth, eliciting a pain-filled cry from Leighton’s mouth.
“Yes! I did it! With my right,” he sobs, sucking in several relieved breaths when Arrow stops. “I-I wanted her. And... And… I was on some new kind of Molly. My fucking mind, man, was… I just wanted to fuck her.”
Of course, he did. He always wants to fuck someone. Especially Journey. The amount of times I’ve followed behind her and watched as she waved him off is astronomical. I would have beat him back, but she defended herself just fine. She always has. Journey can handle anything. I don’t have any doubts about that. I’ve been hopelessly following her around for years, watching in the shadows as she lived her life. I realized when I was a little older that her home situation wasn’t good. That’s when I started feeding her and making sure she had what she needed.
Jericho growls, losing himself to the bloodlust while inflicting pain on Leighton. Hit after hit, he slams his fists into Leighton’s face until blood spurts from his mouth, and his nose twists to the side worse than before.
Blood drips from his split lip and bleeding gums, flowing down his chin and onto his pants. With fascination, Jericho watches it pool there as Leighton groans, begging him to stop through garbled mumbles.
Jericho’s head snaps to the right when the click of my rings brings him back from the brink of murdering Leighton where he sits. Not that anyone would miss him. Maybe his miserable father. But that’s it.
‘Molly?’ I sign, holding up a finger to stop us from damaging him any further. ‘Where did he get it from?’
“Where’d you get the Molly from?” Jer calmly asks, rubbing the blood over his knuckles.
“Come on,” Arrow whines, moving the hand-held bone saw back and forth again. “Let me take his finger.”
